Tastes of truth
by Inkfire
Summary: Because everything about Christmas is a lie, and a blatant show of weakness. An entry for the December Monthly Challenge on the Hogwarts Online Forum.


**An entry for the December Monthly Challenge on the Hogwarts Online forum: Tom Riddle's view on Christmas. **

**In case it's unclear, the three parts take place: when he is a child, during his 6th year, and then during GoF. **

You get, like each year, a tiny toy you were asked to pick at random from a huge box. This year it is a wooden ball, painted bright red, and a couple of boys are staring at you with envy obvious on their faces. But they are stupid, _oh so stupid_; _you_ can see that there's something wrong, that this is but a worthless parade, to make you all forget about the emptiness. In the stories they tell you, the gifts come from loving families.

The toys do not matter, you know it – but they don't. The toys are meaningless. The toys are_ lies_, and you dislike those already. You refuse to believe, and refuse to smile, to cheer and fake happiness. Why should you? You know the hard truth.

They come later in your room, the boys, to take the wooden ball and wipe that smirk off your face. Oh, it happened before. But there's something more in you this year, and they run away crying – and _you _keep their toys.

The whispers get stronger. _Weird_, they say. That one never changed. They should know by now that it's _powerful_, _different_, _special_. But after all, they are stupid. You can't change them.

It's so pathetic, the way they can't seem to see how empty their lives are. It's pathetic, their cries of joy at Christmas. You know better; you don't expect gifts, from anyone. You win your own victories, conquer fear and respect, and day by day, you watch your power grow. Nothing is granted for you – and yet you _know_ that one day you woll rule the world.

(_you know that love is a foolish lie, and only victory matters_)

(_you know that you're the only one_)

* * *

You wander the castle, scowling at the silly decorations. Dumbledore insisted that the whole place would be filled with Christmas spirit, the old fool. So as a Prefect, you lent a hand, and now you're staring resentfully at a bunch of sickeningly glistening fir trees, which would be nearly enough in themselves to ruin the whole place's atmosphere of power.

Those are especially unbearable. As soon as you come back from your round, you'll certainly point Nott his next targets. They can't ruin the castle for you – your kingdom, your legacy, glistening with Christmas frenzy. They don't have the _right_.

You try to focus on how you're going to ask Slughorn what you need to know. But there are shouts everywhere, stupid joy and _love _openly displayed and flaunted around, and you are distracted by annoyance and disgust. You'd like to curse a few of them into oblivion, but you need to watch yourself, keep your cover. So you hold yourself back – the Slytherin golden boy, an actor like they'll never see one again – but you think of the Basilisk, and you grin.

Back in your common room, your fellow Slytherins are chatting excitedly, messing around like children. The _Christmas spirit_ – you roll your eyes. Your ancestor's house, the top of pureblood society, the most cunning, ambitious and dignified, _right_.

Soon they'll all be back to their happy, wealthy, dignified families. Your victims-to-be will be enjoying their last moments of _love_. You scowl at the thought.

You won't have any presents this year – you'll be left almost alone, in the grand castle overwhelmed with cheerful lights you can't bear. Your little group of followers, they wouldn't dare such a familiar gesture, and no one else gives a damn. You don't care, of course.

(_of course you don't. In a way, that's what you wanted_)

(_in a way_)

* * *

Where are they tonight, your followers?

You know that they must be happy. Prime and proper, perfect purebloods with their grand manors and beautiful families. They must smile so condescendingly, sure to have led their life to glory and success. Soon they'll cower and writhe, and beg for mercy.

You smile an icy smile, _inhuman_. Nagini hisses from the floor in response.

Wormtail is somewhere in the house watching Crouch – you are alone. It's Christmas time. You haven't thought about Christmas for years and years of being less than a ghost, away from men's eye.

You used to despise it so much. Now you _loathe_ it – now you yearn to rip happiness from their hearts, to show them the world for what it really is. A place where all that matters is power, and they, stupid loving ones, are as good as dead already. Even whose who fight for you. _Especially_ those who fight for you. They should know that there are no such things as presents coming from life. They should know that you will crush them at the first mistake.

(_soon they will know_)

(_soon you will rise again_)

A new era is about to begin, and a long-forgotten thrill widens your scarlet eyes.

(_a Christmas of high hopes, and sweet irony_)


End file.
